Koen stood stiffly as Bellius spoke, arms crossed over his chest, fingers digging into his biceps as he listened. The way Bellius spoke—"That’s a strong name. I like it."—sent an odd shiver down his spine. It wasn’t threatening, exactly, but it was still unsettling. Like the weight of those words meant something more here than they would’ve back home.

And then came the introductions.

Bellius. Sayla. Rhiot.

Koen kept his face neutral, but his mind worked quickly, turning over the information, storing it. Institute. Head of Arcane. Head of Viper. He had no damn clue what any of that meant, not yet, but it sounded like some kind of hierarchy. Bellius ran this place. Sayla dealt with magic. Rhiot… Viper. Whatever that entailed.

He didn’t react outwardly to any of it, just nodded once in acknowledgment. But the moment Sayla spoke, his jaw clenched.

"Pardon my informality here, but what the literal hells, Bellius."

Her voice was sharp, edged with irritation, and Koen felt himself instinctively straighten, shoulders squaring as tension crackled between them. He didn’t know the full scope of their argument, but he could read people well enough. Sayla was pissed. Bellius, for all his composure, was holding firm.

Koen should’ve been more concerned with whart they were actually saying—what problem Sayla thought he might pose, what Bellius thought about all of this—but instead, all he could focus on was the sheer, suffocating sensation of being talked about. Right in front of him.

Like he wasn’t even there.

Like he was some specimen they had to analyze and decide what to do with.

It hit a nerve, one that had been worn raw long before he woke up in this place.

And Rhiot was staring.

Koen caught it out of the corner of his eye—the way the pale-haired fey’s red gaze lingered on him, th flicker of something unreadable in his expression. It wasn’t just curiosity. It was study. Those eyes were pretty, but not when they lingered on Koen like he was some kind of new animal no one had ever seen before.

Koen turned his head slightly, meeting Rhiot’s gaze dead-on for a moment. If he was supposed to flinch away under the scrutiny, he didn’t. He just held it, let his exhaustion temper the sharpness in his own green eyes.

Then, finally, Bellius gave an order. And Koen wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or irritated when he was handed off to Rhiot like some kind of package.

Rhiot, for his part, seemed amused by the whole thing.

Koen didn’t like that.

He liked it even less when Rhiot started walking, and he was expected to just follow along like some lost kid. But what choice did he have? Wandering off in an unfamiliar place like this would be stupid, and Koen wasn’t stupid.

So, he walked.

Koen’s jaw tightened as he walked, the fey’s presence irritatingly palpable. There was something about him—something smug, or maybe just too self-assured—that made Koen’s skin itch. He wasn’t sure if it was the way Rhiot kept looking at him, all sharp-eyed and studying, or the way he spoke, like he was playing at being polite but didn’t actually care about the answer. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was just the fact that Koen didn’t like being paraded around like some kind of curiosity.

Still, he forced himself to keep his expression unreadable, or as close to it as he could manage. He’d already given too much away with the way he’d tensed when Bellius and Sayla had been arguing. He wasn’t interested in giving Rhiot more ammunition to pick him apart.

The fey’s comment was met with nothing but a slow exhale from Koen’s nose. He didn’t even glance at him.

It wasn’t that Koen didn’t want to respond. He did. He wanted to say something dry, maybe bite back at the casual way Rhiot was treating this whole thing. Like Koen hadn’t just woken up in another world, like he wasn’t standing in the middle of some ornate, unfamiliar hall, surrounded by creatures that could probably kill him if they felt like it.

But he didn’t have the energy for that right now.

His body still felt wrong. Not weak, exactly—more like his muscles weren’t reacting the way they should, like something was slowing them down, making everything just a little too sluggish. If he had to fight, he wasn’t confident he’d be at full capacity. And that pissed him off.

No, I don’t want a drink, he wanted to snap when Rhiot offered. Instead, he barely inclined his head, his voice flat. “I’m fine.”

The truth was, he didn’t trust anything they had here. He didn’t trust them. Not yet.

His gaze flickered briefly over the spread of food, eyes catching on the glistening fruits, the fresh bread, the thick, cured meats. It smelled good—too good. Like something out of a fairytale, which was exactly why Koen wasn’t touching any of it. He might not know much about fey, hadn't even known they existed, but he knew enough. Eating or drinking the wrong thing in a place like this could go bad fast.

Rhiot’s smirk didn’t help. That smug little curve of his lips, the way he watched Koen, like he was waiting to see what he’d do. Koen hated it.

“You’re really enjoying this, huh?” The words left his mouth before he could stop them, his exhaustion making him reckless. He met Rhiot’s red-eyed gaze, his own unreadable, but something simmered beneath it. “Playing tour guide. Watching me stumble around trying to make sense of any of this.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The weight behind it was enough.

Then, as if deciding the conversation wasn’t even worth lingering on, Koen turned away from the food, from Rhiot’s too-interested expression, and rolled his shoulders. He could still feel Rhiot’s eyes on him. Watching. Assessing.

Koen had dealt with people like this before. People who looked at him like they were trying to figure him out like he was some puzzle they just had to solve.

He never let them.

Koen exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight as he forced himself to stay focused. His entire body was coiled with tension, like a wire wound too tight, ready to snap. Every word out of Rhiot’s mouth only grated on his nerves more, from the mocking curiosity to the casual way he tossed around the fact that humans weren’t exactly welcome here. Like it was just another amusing little fact, nothing to be concerned about.

Koen wasn’t stupid. He’d picked up on the way people looked at him, the way Rhiot kept watching him, even when he acted like he he wasn’t. The Fey moved with a certain grace, but there was something snake-like about him, something that made Koen’s skin itch. He wasn’t sure what it was—maybe it was the easy arrogance, or maybe it was the way he carried himself, like he was above it all, like Koen was a curiosity, a mystery to be picked apart.

Whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

Still, he wasn’t about to show that. He didn’t trust this place. Didn’t trust these people, no matter how much they were pretending to be helpful. He’d played this game before, navigating unknown territory, sizing up people who could be threats. He needed to stay calm, needed to keep his head clear.

So he exhaled again and gave Rhiot a sharp look. “Yeah, well, I don’t particularly care what a bunch of monsters think about me being here.” His voice was flat, edged with something dry and biting. “I didn’t exactly ask to be here, did I?”

Koen rolled his shoulders, trying to push off the heavy exhaustion creeping into his bones. His whole body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry, his nerves raw and frayed. But he wasn’t about to slow down. Not here. Not when he didn’t know what the hell was going on.

Then the other one arrived.

Koen’s sharp gaze flicked to the small creature scurrying up to them—hooves clicking against the stone floor, horns catching the dim light. They weren’t threatening, but they weren’t exactly comfortable either. There was something jittery about them, something nervous.

The moment they looked at him, Koen felt his anxiety rise. It wasn’t much—just a flicker of uncertainty in their expression, like they were trying to decide if he was safe. If he belonged.

That was enough to piss him off—but it also made his temper defuse, as well. The look in their eyes.. like they were almost scared of him.

Maybe that was just Rhiot.

He hoped?

"Sayla is attempting to distract... you know who... and has requested you speak to her immediately."

There were way too many layers to this bullshit.

Koen barely had time to register that before the air shifted again. Rhiot’s entire demeanor changed in an instant. The irritation, the tension, the way he suddenly coiled like a predator scenting something foul in the air. Koen wasn’t sure what the hell was going on between these people, but he could tell when someone was getting ready for a fight, even if it was just with words.

And for some reason, that made his skin crawl. He felt the sudden urge to jump out and protect the poor thing from his glare. It only made him resent the pale Fey more.

The creature—Cinna, apparently—shrank udner Rhiot’s stare and hurried away, and Koen had to force himself not to scoff. Fucking weird place, weird people.

And now they were dragging him off to someone else.

Again, Koen didn’t have a choice.

So he followed.

The walk was quiet. The kind of quiet that had weight to it, something just barely restrained beneath the surface. Koen’s boots scuffed slightly against the floor as he walked, and he kept his arms loose at his sides, trying to shake the tension from his shoulders. He didn’t trust how calm Rhiot was acting now. Didn’t trust anything about this.

Then they arrived at the observatory.

Koen’s breath hitched, just for a second.

He wasn’t the kind of guy to be impressed easily, but there was something about the way the glass panes caught the light, the way the whole space felt open, almost untouchable, that made something tighten in his chest. It was the first thing in this godforsaken place that didn’t immediately feel hostile.

But then his gaze snapped to the woman standing at the table, arms crossed, looking pissed. Sayla.

Koen felt that same damn tension settle back into his bones.

The conversation that followed barely registered at first—he was too busy trying to get a read on her, on the room, on whatever the hell they’d dragged him here for. He caught the way Rhiot prodded at her, the sharpness in her response, the weight of whatever unspoken things were hanging between them.

But none of it mattered.

Because then he stepped closer.

And the artifact reacted.

Koen didn’t even realize what had happened t first. Didn’t want to realize. The shift in the air, the faint hum, the way something unseen but powerful stirred the second he got too close.

He stopped cold.

His stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no. This is not supposed to be happening. I wanted a calm, normal life with Drew.. this was not.. I didn't..

His breath came sharp through his nose as he stared at the carving. The bird, simple and small, glowing just barely, like it had taken a breath for the first time in decades. It looked new. Fresh. Alive.

And it had done that the second he got near it.

He didn’t move at first. Didn’t reach for the damn thing. Just stared at it, wariness coiling deep in his gut.

“This… is the first sign the magic hasn’t died.”

Sayla’s voice held something fragile. Something dangerous. Hope was dangerous. Koen had learned that young, learned that hope had a way of twisting itself into a knife when you let it in too deep.

His gaze flicked from the carving to Sayla, then to Rhiot. He didn’t like the way they were looking at him. Like he was something now. Something else.

His stomach churned, a sick feeling crawling up his spine. He swallowed it down, forced his voice steady, even as unease tightened his throat.

“What,” he said slowly, carefully, “the fuck does that mean?”

He didn’t reach for the artifact. He didn’t want to. Whatever just happened, it had nothing to do with him. Couldn’t.

He wasn’t special.

He was just a guy who got dealt a shit hand and woke up in a world that wasn’t supposed to be real.

And now they were staring at him like he was the answer to something.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails pressing into his palms as his pulse hammered in his ears. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like any of this.

And he sure as hell wasn’t about to pick up that fucking bird.

Koen didn’t move at first. Didn’t respond. Just stood there, weight settled into the floor like he was bracing for something. His stomach still felt twisted from the whole bird situation, and Sayla’s cryptic 'she can’t know he’s here' wasn’t exactly settling his nerves. The hell kind of mess had he walked into?

His gaze flicked to Rhiot, watching the Fey’s easy, lingering smugness like it was some kind of game. Always close by. Yeah, he bet. Probably just waiting for him to slip up.

Koen exhaled sharply through his nose and stepped past Rhiot into the room.

It was quiet. The heavy kind of quiet, the kind that pressed in around his ears and made his skin itch. He took a few slow steps further inside, eyes moving through the dim light as he sized up the space. The air had that cold, old-stone smell, mixed with something faintly herbal—dried lavender, maybe. A single lantern hung from the wall, its golden glow flickering against dark wooden furniture.

The bed was bigger than it needed to be, draped in heavy fabric that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. There was a sturdy desk against the far wall, a few empty shelves, and an armchair near the window. The curtains were thick, meant to block out light, but when he brushed his fingers against them, dust stirred in the air.

No signs of recent use. Whoever had last stayed here—if anyone had at all—was long gone.

His gaze flicked toward the window. The glass had intricate carvings in it, nothing too elaborate, but enough that it distorted the view outside. Probably enchanted. Wouldn’t be surprised if breaking it wasn’t an option.

Koen turned slightly, catching Rhiot still hovering outside the door, watching him like he was waiting for something. Maybe testing him. Maybe just waiting to see if he’d react.

He let the silence stretch a little longer before finally speaking. “You ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?” His voice was flat, but sharp at the edges, brittle with something restless.

He didn’t wait for an answer before turning his back on him completely and stepping further inside.

The door shut harder than necessary.

Finally. Alone.

Koen stood still in the center of the room for a long moment, listening. The quiet here was thick, swallowing sound. He ran his tongue over his teeth, then exhaled, slow and steady, rolling his shoulders.

Something was wrong.

More wrong than it had already been.

That damn bird had reacted to him. Not to Rhiot, not to Sayla, but him. And whatever the hell that meant, they weren’t telling him. Not all of it, anyway. That much was obvious.

And then there was her.

Whoever she was, Sayla had made it real clear that he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near her. And that was what stuck with him the most.

Koen ran both hands over his face, then dragged them through his hair, pacing once, twice, then forcing himself to stop.

He wasn’t locked in. Yet. But that was probably coming.

His eyes moved over the room again, this time not just looking, but searching.

The door—heavy, reinforced. He could brace a chair under the handle if he had to, but that’d only buy time.

The window—definitely enchanted. No way they’d risk an obvious escape route.

He exhaled through his nose. He’d play along. For now. Get more information. Figure out what the hell was going on, why they were so desperate to keep him in the dark.

Koen stared at the floor for several long moments, his mind trying to wrap around all the whys and hows.

And they overwhelmed him. Realization set in much too late.

It wasn't long before Koen’s breath came a little too fast. Shallow. The kind of breathing that crept up on you before you realized you were on the edge of something worse.

No. No, no, no. Not here, Koko. Not now.

Who's voice was that? Who the hell was that?!

His hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling into fists before he forced them open again. He could still feel the phantom weight of that bird in his palm, the way it had reacted, the way it had known something about him that he didn’t. His own skin felt foreign, like it didn’t belong to him.

This wasn’t right. None of this was right.

His chest tightened. His stomach twisted. He backed up a step, only to bump against the heavy wooden desk. The solidity of it barely registered, his thoughts spiraling too fast, looping over themselves like a snake eating its own tail.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

But it was.

His eyes darted around the room again, seeing everything but understanding none of it. The heavy curtains. The carved glass. The thick, old walls that weren’t just walls but part of something older, something built to last, something meant to keep people inside.

Like a cage. Like a goddamn cage.

Koen sucked in a breath, but it didn’t feel like it reached his lungs. His heart was slamming against his ribs, beating too fast, too hard, like it was trying to get out. The more he tried to catch up with it, the more it pulled away, hammering at his insides, faster, faster, until it was all he could hear.

His hands trembled. He braced them on the desk, fingers gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His knuckles went white. His vision blurred at the edges.

He had to calm down. But how the fuck was he supposed to do that?

How was any of this even possible?

Magic? Fey? Vampires? It was all some fairytale bullshit, the kind of thing people whispered about in dark corners but never actually saw. And yet—here he was. Standing in the middle of it. Trapped in the middle of it.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

He wasn’t supposed to exist in this kind of world.

So why did it feel like something had dragged him into it, like it had been waiting for him to step wrong, to slip through the cracks?

A sharp, gasping inhale broke from his throat before he could stop it. His hands lifted to his hair, gripping hard enough that it hurt, but the pain barely made a dent in the rising panic crawling under his skin.

He squeezed his eyes shut. His body felt too tight, too small, like his skin was about to split open.

His pulse pounded in his ears.

And then, just to make everything worse: Rhiot.

Koen’s eyes snapped open.

His stomach turned violently at the thought of him. His sharp-edged face. His stupid, stupid smugness. The way his voice had coiled around words like he was playing some private joke only he was in on.

And worse than all of that—the way it looked on him.

The way he looked.

Koen choked on something between a gasp and a curse, his hands dropping from his hair to press against his face instead.

No. Nope. Not doing this. Not touching that thought with a ten-foot pole.

It was just the panic talking. Just stress.

His breath hitched again, and suddenly the room felt too small all over again. His hands pressed harder against his face like he could force himself to get a grip, but it wasn’t working. The walls were too thick. The air was too still.

He needed to move. Needed to do something.

Koen sank to the floor at the foot of the bed and rested his back against it, trembling.

The sky outside the warped glass was shifting—orange bleeding into dusky blue, the last traces of daylight stretching thin over the horizon. Koen stared at it, unblinking. His eyes burned, but that was probably from the tears.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

The mattress beneath him was too soft, unfamiliar, like the rest of this place. It barely dipped under his weight, like it was indifferent to the fact that he was even here.

Like this world was indifferent to the fact that he was even alive.

He swallowed, throat tight and dry.

Someone had knocked earlier—servants, apparently, offering him lunch—but he hadn’t so much as looked at them. Hadn’t trusted them. Hadn’t trusted the food.

He didn’t trust anything here.

His stomach had twisted in hunger a few times, but he ignored it. It wasn’t real. None of this was real. It couldn’t be.

The weight in his chest begged to differ.

It was the same weight that had been there every day since he died. That familiar, suffocating grief pressing in from all sides, hollowing him out, leaving nothing behind but the ache.

He’d thought he was used to it by now.

Apparently not.

His fingers curled into the thick blanket under him, his hands still unsteady, though the worst of the panic had passed. Now, it was just…this. The aftermath. The crash.

The emptiness.

A sharp inhale cut through the still air. He didn’t realize it was his own until his chest hitched again, his face scrunching up against the flood of guilt that had been creeping at the edges of his mind all day.

Because it wasn’t just grief choking him now.

No. It was something worse.

Koen squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his palms against them. His breath shuddered out of him, sharp and uneven.

He couldn’t think about it.

Couldn’t think about him.

About the way his mind had—for one goddamn second—lingered on the shape of Rhiot’s mouth, the sharpness of his jaw, the way his voice dripped with that effortless, arrogant charm.

That selfish, annoying, insufferable—

Koen made a strangled noise, rolling onto his side, curling into himself like that might make it all go away.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

He loved someone. Still did. Even if they were gone, even if it had been years, it didn’t matter. That love hadn’t faded. It hadn’t lessened.

And yet his stomach twisted violently.

He’d thought about Rhiot.

Not just in passing. Not just in hatred.

Really thought about him.

And it made him sick.

A sharp exhale left him, something bitter and exhausted. His body felt heavy, like he was sinking, like the bed was swallowing him whole.

He should have never come here.

Why did the stupid universe have to bring him here?

His fingers curled tighter into the blanket, his jaw clenched so hard it ached. He pressed his forehead against the mattress, trying to block out the thoughts, the guilt, the image of Rhiot smirking at him like he knew something.

The sky outside darkened.

Koen lay there.

And did nothing.

Koen had been staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours, though time had lost any real meaning. His limbs were stiff from staying in the same position, but moving felt pointless. His face was dry now, the tears having run their course, but the hollow ache in his chest hadn’t gone anywhere.

He should eat. He should drink something. He should do something.

But he didn’t trust anything here.

The food. The water. The people.

His stomach had long since given up on complaining, settling into a dull ache he could ignore.

The only thing that had changed in the past few hours was the light. The room was darker now, faint candlelight flickering from the ornate fixtures on the walls, casting long shadows across the stone.

Koen exhaled slowly, trying to ground himself in something—anything. His fingers brushed against the fabric of his hoodie, the familiar worn material bunching under his grip. The last real piece of home he had left.

His jaw tightened.

And then there was a knock at the door.

Koen nearly jumped out of his skin, his breath catching in his throat. His body tensed on instinct, every nerve firing at once as he bolted upright. His pulse pounded in his ears.

"Koen?"

That voice. That annoying voice.

His hands curled into fists in the fabric of his hoodie, grounding himself, forcing down the instinctive wave of panic clawing up his throat.

"Unfortunately for both of us, your presence has been… requested."

Koen’s stomach dropped. He didn’t like the way that was phrased. Didn’t like the pause. The weight in those words.

Of course, it wasn’t a request. Nothing here was.

He swallowed, his tongue feeling like sandpaper.

"There should be some clothes in one of the wardrobes in there if you’d like to change. I’ll be out here when you’re ready."

Koen stared at the door, every muscle in his body locked in place. He didn’t want to go. He really didn’t want to go.

But he also wasn’t stupid.

If he didn’t show up, they’d just send someone else to drag him there. He didn’t trust that someone else to be even half as tolerable as Rhiot.

His fingers trembled as he pushed himself off the bed. The cold air against his skin made him realize just how stiff and gross he felt. He hadn’t moved all day, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t done anything but lay there like a corpse.

Like he was already dead.

Koen gritted his teeth and forced himself toward the wardrobe.

The door creaked when he pulled it open, revealing an array of clothing inside. He squinted in the dim light. Everything looked fancy, which was so far from anything he’d ever wear, but—wait. His fingers brushed against something darker, something simpler.

Black. Brown. White. Neutral tones.

He hesitated before pulling off his hoodie, reluctant to let go of the comfort it gave him, but he knew he couldn’t show up looking like he’d been dragged through a gutter. Even if that’s exactly how he felt.

Changing was a sluggish, mechanical process. Every movement felt heavy, like his limbs were moving through molasses. But when he finally got it on fully, he exhaled. He didn’t feel better, but at least he looked a little less like a wreck.

Koen’s outfit was simple—thank god—but it still felt strange against his skin. The fabric was lighter than he was used to, softer, with a subtle texture that told him it was probably more expensive than anything he’d ever owned. The tunic was fitted but not tight, a deep black with brown stitching along the seams, almost unnoticeable except in the right light. The sleeves were long, tapering at his wrists, and he was relieved to find they hid the slight tremor in his hands.

The pants were dark brown, made of a sturdy material that reminded him of leather but wasn’t quite as stiff. They clung a little too well for his liking—not uncomfortable, but certainly not the baggy sweatpants he was used to. A simple belt fastened at his waist, the buckle made of dark, unpolished metal.

The boots were the only thing that really made him pause. They were black, sleek, and surprisingly well-made. He wasn’t sure if they’d been meant for him, but they fit like they were tailored for his feet. Sturdy, practical. He could move in them. Run in them, if he had to.

Koen tugged at the collar of his tunic, scowling faintly. It wasn’t bad, all things considered. But it felt like a costume. Like he was playing dress-up in someone else’s life.

He hated it.

With a defeated sigh, Koen turn back to the bed, where he’d discarded his clothes. He kicked everything under the bed, except for the black hoodie he cherished so much.

Stupid.

His hand hovered over it before he grabbed it and shoved it under the pillow. Just in case.

With a slow, bracing breath, he turned to the door. His stomach churned as he reached for the handle, fingers tightening around the cool metal.

He didn’t want to do this, but he didn’t have a choice.

The door creaked open. The dim candlelight of the hallway spilled into the room, casting a long shadow at his feet.

And there was Rhiot. Standing by the window, bathed in flickering gold light, watching the world below. His outfit was deep red, embroidered in gold, and Koen didn’t have the energy to shove down the thoughts that crowded his mind at the sight.

Instead, he cleared his throat, voice hoarse from disuse.

“…Alright. Let’s get this over with.”